Angel
by conversophile
Summary: One boys musings on a certain angel he knows(Crutchy/Race)


TITLE: Angel  
  
BY: I'll give you 3 guesses, and the first 2 don't count.  
  
SUMMARRY: One boy musings on a certain angel...  
  
RATING: PG (*sigh*)  
  
WARNINGS: Major fluff, slash-but no snoggage or even touchage. I know, I'm not happy about that either.  
  
FEEDBACK: Would be most appreciated. I like knowing how much I suck.  
  
DISCLAIMER: *speaks into her non-existant-cellphone* Yes, Disney, I know, the boys belong to you. Yes, darlings, I promised already, they'll be home before bedtime. I don't even torture them in this fic, so you don't have to be so uptight-and why you give such pretty boys a curfew is beyond me. Anyway, ta ta loves, have a ficlet to make.  
  
AUTHORS NOTE: I wrote this fic as a HP fic and I hated it. I rewrote this fic as a Newsies fic and loved it. Hmm. Funny how that works. I can't think of anything else about this. Have questions (somehow I doubt you will), just ask in a review *hinthinthint* Enjoy.  
  
~Angel~  
  
I can't sleep. Again. It's beginning to get to me, both physically and mentally. And everyone's started noticing that I have circles under my eyes that are dark enough to be shiners from a Delancy, that I've started drinking more coffee then Skittery does per month, just to stay awake.  
  
I have plenty of excuses. I tell folks it's the heat. I tell folks it's my leg. And they'll believe me. Its been hot enough to melt stone the last few weeks, and my leg acts up when the weather gets extreme. Plus I'm the sweet one, the innocent one. I don't lie.  
  
But I do lie. A lot. More so now that I've stopped sleeping. I have to lie-they wouldn't belive me if I told them the truth. Or they might belive me, but laugh at me, or beat me for not being normal. Because it's not the heat or my leg that's been keeping me up. It's an angel; an angel I can see sleeping across the bunkroom, his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath. He's been keeping me awake at nights, thoughts of him driving all possibility of sleep from my mind and body.  
  
My angel is about 6 inches shorter then the average person, making him a good 8 inches shorter then me. He's far to skinny, with hair the same color of nondescript brown as his eyes. His lips are thin and his teeth are crooked. When he speaks, he speaks with a thick New York drawl of one whose grown up listening to his immigrant parents speak of the old country and better times. He has the voice of an Eyetie, something I'm culturally bred to hate.  
  
He has no respect for anything, using his quick wit and quicker eye to comment on and insult almost everything that comes in his path. And when my angel zings you with an insult, believe me, it stings, almost enough to make you cry-I know, I have been on the receiving end of this deal many times.  
  
Not only has he no respect, he has no common sense what so ever. And in a gambler who loses almost as much as he makes on horse races or whatever else he can bet on-anything from whether the Dodgers will win the next game to the number of girls Mush will fall in love with the next week. More then once one of us has had to pay his rent for him and never gotten paid back, and more then once my angel has come home battered and bruised because he told some bookie he owed to shove it.  
  
My angel is also stubborn as a mule, cheats at cards, drinks, smokes, refuses to let anyone know how he truly feels about anything-he rarely will admit it what he feels to himself-has no sense in clothes what so ever.  
  
In other words, he's perfect.  
  
My angel truly looks like something from the kingdom of heaven-with a round, boyish face, creamy skin and hair the color of the chocolate we buy sometimes for a nickel at the corner store. He has a devilish smile- charming, charismatic, sincere, and with the occasional hint of something evil behind it. It's enough to make you melt.  
  
It's his eyes that truly get me. After knowing him for some time, I've come to read what he's thinking and feeling through his eyes, more then through his words. I adore the way they sparkle with light when he's plotting something, the way they seem to be dull and dancing simultaneously during a game of poker, the way they-once the others are gone-will fill up with guilt and occasionally tears of his own over making someone else cry. He doesn't like to hurt people, but talking is the only way he survived on the street as a tiny Italian kid with no obvious past or future.  
  
My angel is smart, sweet, and seems to feel he needs to be the pillar of support for everyone. He'll tease us mercilessly, but he's always there to distract the Delancys long enough for us to get away, always there to help Dutchy or Boots figure out a good selling technique or hard word in a headline, always there to lend the little ones money or let them win at marbles when they need a piece of hard one cent candy more then anything else, always there for anything.  
  
Racetrack Higgins is an angelic demon, sent from Gods heavenly hosts to mess with our mere mortal minds. And I love him for it-love him with almost hopeless abandon.  
  
Pity he hates me for what I did.  
  
But I did it for him, don't you see? I did it for him.  
  
I love him.  
  
Why can't he see that?  
  
~FIN~  
  
Meh. I'll write more later. There will be a chapter 2/sequel thing, if I ever get around to thinking up what Crutchy did. Blah. Anyhoo, ta lovelies, and remember to review. 


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